


Eluceat Omnibus Lux

by Devilc



Series: Ad Altiora Tendo -- I strive towards higher things [12]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Established Relationship, Historical, Ireland, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 11:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21207542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: It doesn't take long before they find the thread that takes them to the main trackway, which broadens to a single lane road that links isolated crofts to hamlets, and then becomes something wide enough for carts to pass two abreast.They are not alone on the road, but the main passes into the lake valley that houses Cill Airne are from the north and the south, not the east. Just before they start climbing the final pass over the mountains, they fall in with a smallholder's son, Benen, who's taking several plump young sheep to Cill Airne.





	Eluceat Omnibus Lux

**Author's Note:**

> Pilgrimage is copyright its respective owners. This is a labor of love, not lucre.

_Eluceat Omnibus Lux -- Let the light shine out from all_

* * *

They wake in the grey pre-dawn. A time made for loving caresses, but Diarmuid understands. Everything depends on making it to Cill Airne.

Diarmuid rekindles the ashes and makes a quick cup of brose for them while he tends to the horse.

~oo(0)oo~

It doesn't take long before they find the thread that takes them to the main trackway, which broadens to a single lane road that links isolated crofts to hamlets, and then becomes something wide enough for carts to pass two abreast.

They are not alone on the road, but the main passes into the lake valley that houses Cill Airne are from the north and the south, not the east. Just before they start climbing the final pass over the mountains, they fall in with a smallholder's son, Benen, who's taking several plump young sheep to Cill Airne. They are a tithe to the Bishop.

Diarmuid cries out and bounces in his excitement as they crest the final rise and the vista below: the deep blue of the lakes, particularly Loch Léin peeps out of the thick forest, and emerald green islands dot the lakes, and the rugged mountains hem it all in on three sides. "Oh, it _is_ as beautiful as they say!" he says by way of explanation when Benen looks askance at him.

"'Tis a sign of its holiness, or so I'm told," Benen replies, "St. Finian saw it and knew that God wanted him to found his monastery here." He points at one of the islands in Loch Léin and says, "And there it is, Inis Faithlinn."

~oo(0)oo~

"It is strange to see so many people, buildings, too," Diarmuid says as they pass through the gates and into the town's main street.

"I hear tell that there are bigger and grander ones," Benen says as he uses his crook to snag a straying sheep. "This is plenty big for me. Dublin is supposed to have triple the folk, and Waterford, double this. Though this is busier than most times. I'm wondering if a feast day is soon."

"None that I know of," Diarmuid replies, and adds, "We were in Waterford -- just a bit. But we saw nothing beyond the walls of a monastery and the docks at night."

He claps a warning hand on Diarmuid's shoulder and squeezes. The less said about their travels, the better. But at the same time, he wants to tell both of them of the truly great cities of Europe: Paris, Tours, Marseille, Rome … and then of the grand cities of the East: Constantinople, Antioch, Acre, Jerusalem …. 

But that would mean talking, and not out of necessity, but vanity.

Still, he cannot entirely stop his smile as Diarmuid gawps at all they see on the way to the Bishop's. The marketplace. Ale houses. Multiple churches and even a cathedral. The walled compound that bears the standard of the local lords, the O'Donohue-Mor. The long, fortified hall near the Bishop's seat that shows the arms of the Mac Carthy-Mor.

"The King is here, holding court and hearing pleas," Benen says, "that explains all the people." A moment later he adds, "A kinsman of mine keeps an inn a bit down the road, not far from the castle the Normans built. I did hope to bed down there tonight, but I am afraid that even the stables will be overflowing."

"Oh, I hope the monastery will have space," Diarmuid replies. "If it does, perhaps you will join us this evening."

"It would be a grand thing to sleep on the holy island. But when you get there, you must wait until sunset, and look north to the purple mountain --" Benen points to a large, dark, and undeniably purple mountain on the northern horizon. "'Twill be a sight, I promise."

~oo(0)oo~

They help Benen drive the sheep into a corner of the yard and he helps Benen keep them there while Diarmuid seeks out one of the stewards, which may take some doing.

King Diarmait has made a gift of 25 cattle to the church -- fine ruddy coated beasts -- and his younger brother (and heir) Cormac has come to make the delivery. The lowing beasts are packed into one of the pens, and the crowded yard (the other pens are full of tithes) is aflutter with Cormac's men as well as men desperate to be important, trying to catch Cormac's eye, and perhaps spin that attention into a favor, and, if they're very lucky, perhaps get his patronage. Poor Benen could not have picked a worse day or hour to pay his family's tithe.

Diarmuid has finally managed to get a rather harried looking under-steward to come with him when a shriek cuts through the din, "Diarmuid? Is that you?"

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Brother Enda, habit hiked up, racing across the yard, before slipping in the mud and falling heavily to his knees. 

Diarmuid is there a moment later, helping him up. "Brother Enda, what brings you here?"

"Oh God be good! It's you!" and Enda bursts into sobs as he draws Diarmuid to him in a crushing embrace.

"Yes, yes," Diarmuid replies, awkwardly patting him on the back as soon as he can free an arm. "And our silent friend, too."

"My Lord Cormac!" Enda gasps out, "My brothers sent on the pilgrimage! It's them! They live!"

He stands rooted to the ground, a feeling like a stone in his belly, yet feeling almost detached from his body at the same time, as he holds the horse and one of the Mac Carthy armsmen comes over and says, "Come. The Mac Carthy would have a word with you."

He nods (as if he could refuse) and trundles across the yard, his mind in a fog. A stable boy takes the horse and their gear, a steward his weapons, and, surrounded by swords and spears, Diarmuid's hand clenches his as they walk towards … wherever it is these men are taking them. Brother Enda sobs out the story to Diarmuid. An attack on Kilmanan. Normans. Everybody slaughtered, even the milk goats and chickens. Anything that could be set afire burned. Lord Cormac and his men arriving, ambushing the Normans, finding him, saving his life. He took a long time healing.

He can see that. Enda, never a stout man, looks as if a stiff breeze would bowl him over, and his face has an almost ghastly hollowness to it.

"We are all that's left of the pilgrimage," Diarmuid tells him. "I suspect we will be telling what befell us to Lord Cormac and the Bishop."

They are led into an audience chamber, not as plushly appointed as the one in Waterford, but still a grand looking room. Lord Cormac looks to have just finished, but as soon as Brother Enda explains who they are, he retakes his seat as they kneel and kiss the Bishop's ring.

Lord Cormac speaks, "Your grace, shall we send for the for the King, or shall we begin?" 

"As you have his word in dealing with the church, and as it was you and yours who saved Brother Enda from the slaughter at Kilmanan" and here the Bishop crosses himself "I see no need to delay him in his dispensing of justice to those who have come so far or waited so long." A moment later he adds, "We shall summon a scribe to set the words down."

"I would have my Brehon, Sister Fildema, here," Lord Cormac replies. "Her counsel is invaluable to me in matters such as this. I believe she went to visit a kinsman of hers in the scriptorium."

~oo(0)oo~

They separate them, Diarmuid going first. 

After some time, Brother Enda stumbles out of the room, wiping shamelessly at the tears streaming down his face, though Enda's expression brightens slightly when he sees him. He feels for Enda; the next few days will be particularly rough as Enda alternates between the joy of seeing them, and knowing that not all of his fellows died, and reliving the horrors he suffered during the raid. 

He knows that at some point, he will start swinging between joy and sorrow as he sits on the wooden bench outside the hall, flanked by two spearmen. 

There will be no going back to Kilmanan. The hut he lived in was cold and drafty, but he had built it, chinking the stones with seaweed and fingerlings of driftwood. The sounds of the surf on the shore and the wind playing through the beach grasses soothed him to sleep on long nights and helped keep the ghosts of his past mostly at bay.

No more harvesting dulse as Diarmuid hunted the razor clams. No more hauling bucket after bucket of seawater to boil down to brine for making cheese, or even further still to flakes of salt for keeping butter. No more working side by side with the Brothers to finish that little bit more of God's work on Earth.

He knows that things would have been … different … when he and Diarmuid returned home.

But now, he has no more home, and Diarmuid has lost the only home he has ever known and everybody he's ever known outside of himself and Brother Enda.

He tries to think, but his mind runs in an endless loop of no more Kilmanan. From time to time he can feel the grief roiling beneath the surface, but he ruthlessly quashes that down. The time for tears is later. 

He has no idea of what the future holds for him and Diarmuid. He just knows, whatever it is, it waits beyond the door to the Bishop's chamber.

~oo(0)oo~

When they lead him into the audience chamber, Lord Cormac's face is mottled with barely suppressed rage and his eyes glint dangerously. The Bishop's thin white fringe of hair is rumpled, and his dark grey eyes are filled with a mix of anger and sorrow. Diarmuid sits on a bench in a corner and Diarmuid gives him a shaky smile as he kneels and once again kisses the Bishop's ring. A scribe sits at the edge of the table, and seated to Lord Cormac's left is a young nun whose wimple cannot quite contain her flaming curls. Her gaze is steady. He assumes she must be Sister Fidelma, the Brehon Lord Cormac spoke of earlier.

"Young Diarmuid and Brother Enda say that you have taken a vow of silence," the Bishop begins in a measured tone. "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, you are absolved from that vow for the time being, that your words may do the Lord's work, and reveal the truth." 

Out of habit, he nods, but a slight clearing of the Bishop's throat prompts him. "Yes, your Grace," he manages, the words feeling odd in his mouth.

"Who are you?" Lord Cormac cuts in before the Bishop can speak.

He takes a long breath and frames several replies before saying, "A servant to the servants of God." A heartbeat later he adds, "But if you mean the name I once answered to, it died along with the man I used to be. Please do not ask me to say it and give life to him again."

"Very well," the Bishop says, casting a sidelong glance at Lord Cormac.

"But you are a Knight," Sister Fildelma states.

"Yes, Sister, I was."

"Did you go on crusade?" The Bishop asks.

"Yes, your Grace."

"You've been to the Holy Land?!" Diarmuid blurts out.

Both Cormac and the Bishop shoot him a withering glance while Sister Fidelma's eyes twinkle, and he himself cannot quite stop a quick smile, though he wants to reply, "Yes, I did see the Holy Land, and my memories of it are filled with blood and bitterness."

He swears an oath on a relic of St. Finian's, and bit by bit the story comes out, the one that explains why De Merville's men sacked and destroyed Kilmanan. How the pilgrimage went awry, the desperate flight and the death of the Brothers, the younger DeMerville's attack on the beach and the final miracle the stone worked. From there, he recounts the frantic flight from Waterford, the attack in the woods that got them the horse and sword, and deepened his suspicions about who might be stalking them, his decision to turn them into the heart of Desmond, where Normans would not dare strike with anything less than a full army, and to come through Cill Airne before going back up the coast to Kilmanan.

Lord Cormac strikes the table and all but growls as he speaks of how dare "that Norman scum" use a holy relic to further his house, and how he's been pressing the the borders of Desmond for a month now, growing bolder, and gathering allies perhaps.

"The Church notes your concerns, Lord Cormac." The Bishop steeples his and gazes vacantly for a moment or two. "I believe at this point, we need to involve the King." To Sister Fildelma he says, "But quietly, Sister, before word lands in the wrong ears."

"Agreed," she replies, her voice low and husky, "we need to remove this trouble from our doorstep before the devil realizes it has arrived."

~oo(0)oo~

The King is … careworn is not the word. His predecessor ruled but for a year before his death, and the crown does not sit easy upon Diarmait's head. 

He does not envy the King his position, nor the mess he and Diarmuid have dumped in his lap. 

"We could send them to Connachta," suggests Lord Cormac. 

The King guffaws at that. "A gift that would stick in Cathal Red-Hand's craw -- though he likes the Normans as much as we do."

"Sister Fildema and I have a question," the Bishop says. "Has Diarmuid taken his final vows?"

"No," Diarmuid replies, voice thin and papery in the large chamber. "The Abbot suggested I take them at Candlemas, but then he thought it would be better if I took them when we reached Rome -- after I'd seen the world."

"Do you still wish to take those vows?" Sister Fidelma's voice is gentle.

Diarmuid's head jerks up in open mouthed shock. "I-I … no." Then, stronger, "No. I … do not think I could make a good Brother. I think that God -- God has set me on a different path now, and I need to see where it leads."

The room falls silent for a moment before Fildema breaks the silence, spreading her hands as she speaks, "I do believe, my Lords, that someone is needed to tend the royal herd -- the one King Diarmait uses to gift the church."

"An Scairbh," Lord Connor muses, stroking his chin in thought. "We have had a time keeping good men on that island."

"It's not a place anybody will look," The King agrees.

"It will solve two problems," the Bishop observes.

And, with that, their fate is sealed. 

They will not be handed to De Merville or any other Norman lord, nor will they be exiled to stony Connachta -- not that this An Scairbh sounds much better -- but they will be under the direct protection of the King as members of his household. They will have some measure of safety and a life together on An Scairbh.

He takes Diarmuid's hand and squeezes it in his. "You can still take your vows," he says with his glance. 

Diarmuid shakes his head. "This is my -- our path now. We walk it together."

**Author's Note:**

> An Scaribh is better known as [Scariff Island](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scariff_Island). When I read the details of the ruins on the island, that clinched it for me.
> 
> Though the early 1200s would've seen the waining of Irish [Brehon Law](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Early_Irish_law), as I researched, I came across reference to the [Sister Fidelma Mysteries](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sister_Fidelma_mysteries) (which are now on my to read list) and decided to add in a hat-tip to the series. My headcanon is _that_ Sister Fidelma is an ancestress to 1200's Sister Fidelma.


End file.
